


Before the Rain

by rei_soulzero



Category: Crows Zero (2007)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-19 23:36:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1488322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_soulzero/pseuds/rei_soulzero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One or the other. Suzuran or Tokio. And for Tamao, it was never an easy choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before the Rain

He stopped in front of the door. He could hear his own anxious breathing, amplified by the white silence and the reeling emptiness of the hall. The lights buzzed faintly above. Chairs bound to their metal stands lined up along the corridor in groups of three or five. For a time, people could have been sitting there, waiting with the sombreness invoked by purgatory. Rows and rows of identical doors stretched beyond the corner, where the lights stopped and the shadows began.

He was alone. His stark isolation made it seem as though the room was more extensive than it really was. It summoned a vertiginous quality, one where his perspective distorted everything into smaller objects continuously drifting farther. Spiralling away. For a time, he felt light-headed, no doubt owing to the previous night’s sleeplessness, and the acerbic smell of fresh disinfectant. He recovered soon after, but the sharp odour of floor wash would always remind him of solitude.

He slipped a hand out of his pocket, raising it to the door. He took a deep breath, drawing his knuckles closer to the door’s white surface. He had every intention to knock, but his resolve wavered at the sight of the door’s blank fury. He froze, his fist trembling vaguely.

He glanced at the clock, which stared at him like a huge, disapproving eye from the end of the hall.

3:45.

There wasn’t much time.

He had put off coming there for the sole reason that he still had no idea what to say. Along the way, walking down the dusty streets at a deliberately slower pace, his mind fumbled for the right words, jumbling sentences, steering imaginary conversations. Before that, he had already smoked half a pack of Seven Stars, unearthed from a stash inside one of the basement’s cabinets. He parked himself on the couch, feeling weary and empty. At that moment, too, he had been alone when he would usually find himself in the company of his troupe. These days, he found himself less and less around them, not when he often contemplated the space where one of them ought to have been sitting and laughing.

Tsutsumoto and the Mikami Brothers were out gathering the men. They assured Tamao that they would take care of it for him—which, in not so many words, was their way of saying that he should take the afternoon off to make one of the most important decisions he had to.

He closed his eyes, bracing himself.

The simplest things were always the hardest to say.

He tapped the door gently, gritting his teeth. From the beginning, he knew he was Fate’s fool, dancing and twirling along its mischievous rhythm. A little more than good fortune allowed him to rarely miss a beat, but at that moment, Fate would have to carry him through wherever he was truly destined to be.

He touched the doorknob, his palms pierced by the cold steel as it turned with a loud click. A frosty breeze wafted out, prickling his skin.

He walked inside, softly closing the door behind him. A hazy glow descended from the open windows.

“Hey…”

He was relieved to hear that voice again, one so filled with drowsy joy. It washed over him, his whole being a small root submerged beneath a mellow blanket of rain.

“Hey,” Tamao said, managing a smile. He grabbed the only chair in the room and set it closer to the bedside. He sat down facing Tokio, like how he had done in the past few days of constant visits. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like a princess,” Tokio drawled, rolling his eyes with exasperation. “I’ve got people doing everything for me that it’s annoying.”

“Don’t you have that in your house?”

“That’s different,” Tokio smirked. He glanced to the side.

A pause. And then, looking back at Tamao, he said:

“I thought you were gonna ditch me.”

Tamao swallowed what felt like a knot of thorns in his throat. Everything he had rehearsed and mumbled to himself in the basement and amid street corners vanished like smoke. If he were to be truly honest with himself, he wished for nothing more than to be with Tokio that day, to the see the operation through from beginning to end. He wanted to be there when Tokio woke up, to smile back at that silly shit-eating grin he knew the other was wont to display. He wanted to be there the moment Tokio opened his eyes—even if it meant tossing away his ambitions of conquering Suzuran for that one fleeting moment in time.

And yet…

“Tamao… What’s wrong?”

He heaved a sigh, leaning back on the chair. Any more and he would have slipped away into dreams, just like when he lounged around the basement couch, pretending to think, but thinking of nothing at all.

“Tokio, I…”

In truth, he has yet to choose between what he wanted to do and what he _must_ do. Forget about blaming Tokaji for the cheap stunt he pulled with the girl. Tamao could pummel Tokaji to kingdom come, but that would never change the fact that he was still responsible for them as their leader. Tamao was aware that he had been out of it ever since he witnessed first-hand the real magnitude of Tokio’s condition. That night, at the darts bar, Tokio collapsed in Tamao’s arms, his body seized by a sudden tremor. Tamao remembered how his own body grew cold with fear as he saw Tokio’s eyes roll dangerously upwards, to a place he knew not even his screams could reach.

He had never been so afraid in his life. All things considered, he would have been pushing daisies a long time ago had he been a man of weaker mettle. He had been into fistfights more than the numbers in a lottery ticket, or the ways in which one could shuffle them to form a winning pattern. He’s had many a close shave, both in the streets and with the local law enforcement, and never in one of those instances had he felt the same chill that ran up his spine that night Tokio fell, his skin cold and his lips slowly turning blue. Tokio’s condition constantly kept him on edge, brooding and dismal, with nary the time or vigour to even think about what was happening in Suzuran anymore.

His carelessness forced Tokaji to act behind his back. Tamao understood that it was for their victory in a war that had bloated into unimaginable proportions. Tokaji was their strategist after all, but his intelligence sometimes overlooked the value of principle. To be crushed head on would have been more merciful, more dignified, rather than winning with some punk scheme of divide and conquer. The odds were still in their favour after all, even when the rate at which GPS was culling in numbers was alarming. What had been really mortifying for Tamao was that everyone agreed to it out of fear—they panicked Tamao was no longer capable of leading them, having been consumed by the worries regarding Tokio’s illness. Nobody had to say it: One look in their faces that night, at that dingy cellar where the lights flickered ominously, told Tamao everything. And the worst part was that the GPS boys were there to see how Tamao’s hold of his team had somehow fallen apart.

_I guess there’s only one thing left to do_ , Genji said.

_The time to settle things has come._

_Tomorrow at five_ , Genji told him as the taller man stared him down. _In our very own Suzuran._

Tomorrow at five—Genji had to pick that hour of all the hours in the goddamn day.

He glanced at the small clock fronting Tokio’s bed.

3:50.

“What is it?” Tokio said, breaking Tamao’s thoughts.

Tamao couldn’t look at Tokio. He feared that more than the worry, his loneliness and confusion would show. Tokio didn’t need to see it.  
Not today of all days.

“Nothing. Just thinking about something,” Tamao said, feigning a smile. “It’s nothing.”

His stomach gave a sharp lurch as Tokio frowned at him suspiciously. On most days, Tamao could pretend things were alright, much in the same way he faked his innocence about having eavesdropped on Tokio’s conversation with the doctor. He knew he was never going to get even remotely close to the truth if he didn’t take drastic measures. For all that Tokio often laughed and cracked jokes, he was dead serious about keeping secrets, particularly his own. He carried the weight of his burdens by himself, thinking that confiding in others would simply inconvenience them. In all those years they’ve been together, Tamao was allowed only a peek into Tokio’s life, and still that isn’t without an ounce of reservation. Tamao respected that; he was not of the kind to pry. Tokio can keep the skeletons in his closet for as long as he wished, but in the case of his health, Tamao could not help but break the unspoken rules between them. Tamao’s only regret was that he was powerless to do anything regardless of his discovery.

Tokio struggled to sit up, his breaths shortening. It was only then that Tamao realized the heart monitor beeping faster.

“Tokio—”

Tokio silenced his friend with a wave of his hand. “I’m sick, Tamao,” he panted softly, “not stupid.”

The hurt was evident in Tokio’s voice and Tamao couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Just tell me.”

Tamao’s hankering for a cigarette was so overwhelming that being inside a hospital almost slipped his mind. Instead, he settled for a deep breath, blowing the air away as though it were smoke.

“I told you, you can just sit back and relax.”

Tokio stared at him fixedly, puzzled and perhaps a little irritated. Tamao glanced to his side and eyed a small plateful of abandoned cookies on the bedside table. He wondered briefly who it came from, though the snack’s appeal had been lost to him on account of it not being on the floor.

“You know,” Tokio said, smiling a bit, “this might be your last chance to tell me. So spill it out.”

“That’s not funny,” Tamao glared.

“I’m serious.”

Silence between them. Tamao remembered an old saying: Silence descends when angels pass. But even then, he felt no solace.

“Today at five… In Suzuran…” he trailed off, his mind screeching to halt, his throat choking on a whirlwind.

Tokio blinked, first unable to comprehend what he had been told, but as he put two and two together, his eyes widened and Tamao saw the glimmer of understanding from those dark-brown orbs.

Tokio’s shoulders fell, his pale lips pursing.

“Man, I envy you guys,” he said, staring up the ceiling. His voice was cracking. “I wish I could join you.”

“Don’t worry about us,” Tamao grinned, albeit sadly. “Besides, it might be for the best that you don’t see it.”

“I’ve put the past behind. I would have taken Genji on if you told me to.”

Tamao chuckled and shook his head. “You’re still a bad liar.”

“You should go, Tamao,” Tokio said, himself laughing a little. “They’re waiting for you.”

“Still early.”

“Don’t tell me you’re sitting this one out,” Tokio teased, but Tamao’s response, one so grave and inscrutable, surprised him.

“So what if I do?”

“You’re joking… right?”

Tamao shrugged, turning his attention to the ceiling. He gazed at it as though it held the most interesting speck in the whole galaxy.

“Tell me you’re joking,” Tokio said, his voice buzzing with alarm. Seeing as how Tamao refused to answer, he cast the sheets aside, turning in bed as he struggled to get down. His hands clasped the metal railing the minute his feet hit the floor, balance becoming more of a luxury than reflex.

“This is a joke, right?” Tokio repeated.

He seized Tamao’s collar, the latter showing no signs of resistance. Tamao allowed himself to be tugged slightly upwards as he continued to regard Tokio with the same vacant expression.

“This isn’t like you.”

_So I heard_ , Tamao thought exasperatedly, recalling the chat he had with Genji at the harbour. Even Genji got wind of such a useless rumour, though it was something Tamao could not deny. It had been the cause of this dilemma in the first place. In retrospect, he wished that he had done things differently, but then again, Tokio had always been the better liar.

“Why are you doing this?”

Tamao’s expression shifted into one of guilt laced with frustration, the words he held back amounting to _Because of you, stupid._

Tokio released his collar, feeling more exhausted than angry. He shuffled back to the bed and sat down on the edge, his head bowed as if addressing the floor.

“Don’t let me hold you back. This is my fight, Tamao. You have yours.”

For a moment, Tamao wanted to rage, to tell Tokio that he should stop being so goddamn stubborn, that he doesn’t always have to sound like a fucking martyr who’s got no one to look out for him. Tamao wanted to tell him that he shouldn’t have lied, that he should have had at least the decency to consider that they were friends—partners—if anything, and that merited some honesty on his part. He was _dying_ , slipping away, and still he bore than insufferable smile as though nothing was wrong. He wanted to give Tokio a hard one on the face, and he would have, in a heartbeat, had circumstances been a lot more different.

Tamao was about to speak, to argue that it may be Tokio’s fight but the choice to stay was his own. Yet, the words abruptly got stuck in his throat as he saw the telling way in which Tokio’s shoulders quivered, fists crumpling the white sheets as he tried to hold back what sounded like an onslaught of tears.

“Don’t make it any harder than it already is.”

Tamao stood up and faced Tokio, dragging his feet across the floor. He stared at Tokio and right through him, his mind as blank as his face, the spaces between and around them assuming an inexplicable opacity. All of a sudden, he collapsed gently into Tokio’s arms, the latter catching him just in time. Tamao’s head rested sedately on Tokio’s shoulder.

“Tamao…?”

“You stubborn bastard,” Tamao murmured, though without any anger, let alone energy. His hands fell limp to his side, feeling more like a rag than human.

“You idiot,” Tokio whispered.

A pair of arms encircled Tamao, fingers locking together gently, hesitantly. And then Tokio’s embrace tightened around him, pressing him closer, filling that space of loneliness and dread between them.

Tamao’s own arms seemed to take a life of their own and they held Tokio for what felt like a long stretch of time. He hardly cared for the way his hands trembled, his mind drifting away into the memory of passing sunsets on shabby rooftops. The horizon awash with scarlet, a huge fire in the distance swallowing everything.

_Do you think things could change between us someday?_

“I’m scared…” Tokio breathed, chuckling a little. He sounded like a boy struggling to mask the pain of a horribly grazed knee with laughter. “I’m scared as hell.”

_Don’t be_ , Tamao wanted to say, and he almost did. _Be strong and don’t be afraid_ —but it would have been a lie. Instead, he closed his eyes and allowed his head to rest on Tokio’s shoulder.

“Me too…”

“Tamao, if I… if I don’t make it…”

“You’ll make it,” Tamao said with a kind of conviction that made even him believe what he had just uttered. He tenderly disengaged from their embrace and looked straight into Tokio’s eyes, cupping that pale, weary face with his hands. “You’ll make it.”

A small, melancholy smile traced Tokio’s lips.

“You’ll make it,” Tamao grinned back, pressing his forehead against Tokio’s. Gentle fingers rested on his chin, a thumb softly grazing his lip.

“You’ll be here afterwards, right?”

“I don’t want to go.”

“You have to,” Tokio whispered, his voice steady. “I can’t go but… We’ll fight together. We always have,” he said, as though he was uttering a small prayer.

Tamao nooded, the years between them collapsing into that small, swiftly receding space between their lips. Just before his eyes crossed over into the saccharine darkness, Tamao caught a glimpse of Tokio’s own eyes closing, his long lashes draping like soft curtains.

Gently at first, as if touched by falling snow, their lips pressed together, testing the waters of uncharted territory. Tamao’s heart began to speed up, joy and sadness, fear and hope swirling rapidly within him. It felt like a giant star about to meet its death, overcome by waves of turbulence before finally surrendering to the calm of space. But it wasn’t calm that passed between them. If at all, the bedlam of their emotions only heightened, exponentially expanding, shutting out the world that drifted out of their secret refuge’s orbit.

It wasn’t long before Tamao felt the exact moment Tokio’s mouth opened into wordless abandon. With a mind of their own, his hands brought Tokio closer, harder into their kiss, his tongue venturing inside such precious, irresistible domain. The taste of Tokio’s mouth was like sipping the sunset: laced with velvet warmth and swirling with fiery colours. It consumed him whole, a tidal wave of scarlet that ignited an exotic fever from within. A small tremor rose from his body as Tokio moaned inside his mouth, loud and steeped with dark desire.

Tokio’s hands gripped Tamao’s polo, the gaudy, flowery fabric crumpling inside his fists. For a moment, Tamao opened one of his eyes, taking a peek at the way Tokio’s face looked while intoxicated with longing. He sighed, deep and ragged and satisfied, his own breaths shortening as he relished in the sight of Tokio’s hungry, guiltless expression.

“Ta… ma… o…”

A sudden charge ran through Tamao’s body as Tokio repeated his name in between short bursts of breathing and long, mouthfuls of kisses. He planted his hands on the bed, steadying himself as he leaned closer, barely keeping at bay the overwhelming desire to push Tokio down the mattress. A loud moan escaped from his mouth as Tokio nipped at his lower lip, a mischievous reply to what he had in mind. He shuddered as Tokio’s ran a hand through his chest, fingers stopping and fiddling distractedly with the buttons of his polo. Tamao briefly worried about the door and how someone could simply walk in on them. But as Tokio’s tongue kept running along his mouth, the thought of anyone seeing them quickly became a matter of little importance.

“Tokio…”

That name had never tasted sweeter in Tamao’s mouth. He had always known Tokio meant more to him that just a friend, a partner whose unflinchingly loyalty was but one of the many aspects he cherished. The years they shared—strung together by fighting in back alleys or in the belly of the school, driving along the freeway in Tokio’s bike, laughing and drinking away the late nights in bars, watching sunsets on the school’s shabby rooftop—somehow gave Tamao more reason to dread change, and therefore not risk the convenience of their friendship by simply acknowledging the complexity of his feelings. He did not completely understand it at first, shoving at the back of his mind the peculiar sensations he had whenever the matter of Tokio was at hand. He tried many times to convince himself that it was all something quite brotherly, but the thought of it lingered with an unpleasant aftertaste. He _wanted_ Tokio, from the depths of that secret place his heart dare not hazard out of guilt and shame. But the helplessness he felt upon learning Tokio was ill, was practically _dying_ , gave light to those feelings once again, only more grim and desperate than when things were still the way they were. He brooded endlessly, knowing that life without Tokio would be a horribly wretched affair. Hardly a life at all, he once concluded, and the thought left him empty and confused, lost and without solace for the coming future. More than anything, Tokio was the impossible conquest, the one problem he could not solve despite being so dear to him. But at that moment—perhaps even the last they would share together—Tamao surrendered it all to chance, rejection be damned.

And he was glad that at least this time, he made the right decision.

“Tamao… I…”

“Don’t… say… anything…”

“But… I can’t… breathe…”

Tamao broke away from their kiss, gasping and barely able to hold his wits together. His head was whirling, drunk with a kind of yearning he had always known had existed. Blinking, he watched Tokio fumble for his oxygen mask on the bed, and realized only after that he ought to help him.

“Sorry,” Tamao wheezed, and ran his fingers through his hair. “You okay?”

“M’fine,” Tokio said, holding the nebulizer to his face. His cheeks shone bright red beneath the light of the open windows.

“Is this gonna be bad? I mean, for later?” Tamao asked, scratching his head, his own cheeks burning.

“Shouldn’t be,” Tokio smiled from behind the plastic gadget.

“C’mon, get some rest,” Tamao said as he helped Tokio lie back down.

“Promise me… You won’t forget what I said, okay? We’ll fight together, just like the old days.”

“Promise,” Tamao said, his fingers fiddling with Tokio’s black hair.

They stayed that way for a while, the feelings of lust and desire gradually dissipating. No words between them were spoken for a long time, but it was enough. Only the sadness of leaving had remained, perched upon the light and the shadows and the silence that engulfed them.

“Tamao, I… if this doesn’t… I just want you to know that—”

“I told you already,” Tamao said, placing a finger over the oxygen mask. “You’ll make it.”

“I just… I just want you to know that—”

“I know,” Tamao smiled. “Me too. For a long time now.”

Tokio closed his eyes, his cheek sinking into the warmth of Tamao’s hand.

“I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Mm,” Tamao breathed, his voice beginning to crack again. Gently, he kissed Tokio’s forehead before walking toward the door.

He stopped as Tokio reached out for his hand. Tamao squeezed it tenderly, resisting the temptation to turn around.

_Don’t go._

“We’ll go to a buffet after all this is done,” Tamao said, trying to sound cheerful. “It’s on me.”

_Don’t go._

“Yeah, right,” Tokio chuckled weakly, squeezing his hand back.

_Wait for me._

Tamao’s tender grip eased. It was time.

_I love you._

Tokio’s hand fell back.

_I’ll see you soon._

Tamao walked to the door. His hand shook as he seized the cold, metal knob. He could hear Tokio’s muffled sobbing, and it was only then that he became aware of the streaks of tears that mapped his face.

The door closed with a soft thud.

Alone in the empty, white hallway, Tamao stole a glance from the clock.

It was 4:30 when it began to rain.


End file.
